Für Gilbert, Von Liz
by Lewis and Silver
Summary: Elizabeta and Gilbert are a young couple, living a working couple's life in 1980 Illinois. But when Gilbert is mistaken for a notorious Mafioso, he is arrested and it's left to Elizabeta to get him out by all means possible, and all means necessary. Human AU, T for language. Written by SilverLaurel and Weapon Frayer.
1. We Can Burn Brighter Than The Sun

**Authors' Notes;**

**Weapon Frayer; I would like to thank LaurelSilver for her work here! It's been great, and I hope we can continue this as it goes along!**

**Just as a quick note; if you are wondering about the song titles, you might might to look them up, and listen as you read. Trust me, they really enchance the story! :)**

**Laurel Silver; Weapon Frayer suggested most of the story and song list. So you might notice that a lot of the songs are indie and pop punk, with a few metal and punk songs thrown in for good measure.**

**Also, you might notice that 'time is wrong', i.e, this story is set in 1980 but things from more modern times are featured. Please don't be upset, this isn't (usually) a mistake, but it will be explained later.**

**I also swear in the narrative. Just mentioning it so nobody's alarmed.**

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><p><strong>Für Gilbert, Aus Liz<strong>

**Chapter 1 - We Can Burn Brighter Than The Sun**

[Levels, Avicii]

Illinois, 1980, and the atmosphere is bright and vibrant, giving every person cloaked within it a good feeling, a feeling they may never have had before.

[We Are Young, Fun.]

In a small bar, Armes Effilochés, a young couple sit, cradling their first round of beers. He is pale, white hair and red eyes, grinning mouth laced with beer and a heavy Germanic accent, clothes dark yet neat and clean from the polished boots to the Rammstein shirt to the cross necklace. She is as fighting fit and healthy as he is, with long oak hair pinned up with a poppy, wearing practical men's clothes that suit her plain pettiness well.

A phone sits between them, on loudspeaker. Both of the young, firey couple seem confused as a Russian voice emits from the device; "And Gilbert, my good man, if you should happen to see a green eyed police officer or a detective with a big, big smile on his face, kindly punch them for me? Shout over Francis; drinks are on me. Just tell him 'Braginski'." And he hangs up.

Gilbert stares at the phone, then shrugs and downs his glass. "Drinking competition?"

Elizabeta grins. "Loser carries the winner home tonight."

It takes three hours, several hundred dollar's worth of beer, and a very concerned French bartender before the pair are even remotely drunk. Elizabeta stumbles out of the bathroom, avoiding the teenagers and old friends getting higher than the Empire State. Her seat has been taken by a pretty blond girl with sunglasses, a hair ribbon, a Rammstein shirt, and her tongue down Gilbert's throat.

[Lose Yourself, Eminem]

So the soap opera is told and unfolds; Elizabeta, enraged, storms out of the bar, not caring what she knocks over.

Out of the corner of his open eye, Gilbert sees her as she storms through the open door. He leaps up, trying to shout out to her, he opens his mouth but the words won't come out, he's choking, and she slams the door behind her, and the clock's run out, time's up, over! But he's so mad that he won't give up that easy, no, and he stumbles after her.

It seems that Elizabeta is better at holding her beer than Gilbert. She's gone.

Snapping back to reality, swearing and cursing, Gilbert stumbles about, falling over, feet failing him, the globetrotter faceplanting, nosediving the earth.

"What's going on?" A British accent, vaguely familiar, asks.

Gilbert stumbles up onto his feet to find green eyes staring back, glaring a gaping hole into his body for his barely sober soul to escape through. The name, or rather the nickname, Rabbit-face Kirkland, flashes in Gilbert's mind, the Kirkland eyebrows furrowed into a frown, the once-rabbity teeth hidden behind pursed line lips, blond hair just long enough to brush the collar of his police uniform.

Holy fuck, Rabbit-face Kirkland's wearing an actual police uniform? Not a slutty one? Unless he's a stripper.

"Hey, Rabbit!" Gilbert grins. He stumbles, Rabbit-face barely quick enough to grab him, hold him up as he vomits up mom's spaghetti.

"Let's get you to the station," Officer Kirkland says gently.

"Nope." Gilbert pulls away, stumbling about until something clicks into place; Rabbit-face is a green eyed police officer, like that Russian guy had said. And how likely is that? Pretty slim, like once in a lifetime. And Gilbert is going to miss this one chance to throw the first punch.

Officer Kirkland reels back, his assistant running over to restrain Gilbert as he giggles drunkenly.

[Clocks, Coldplay]

Stumbling into their shared home, Elizabeta flops onto their bed, passing out, lights out, almost immediately.

Her relationship with Gilbert is an odds one, with troubles that can't be named and tigers that can't be tamed. The confusion never stops, and sometimes it's simply maddening, and it feels like the walls are closing in and the clocks are ticking down, and Elizabeta doesn't know if she's the cure to all Gilbert's awesomeness and recklessness, or if she's part of the disease. But to her, oh! nothing else compares, and when she's sober and awake she's gonna go back and bring him home, come out with the things left unsaid, come out upon her seas cursing missed opportunities, and she'll be home where she wanted to go.

Fucking hell, her heads a mess when she's drunk.

[Ich Will, Rammstein]

It takes a while for Officer Kirkland and a smiley blond Detective to sober him up, but within a few hours, Gilbert is sat in an interrogation room with Detective Jones, as he had introduced with a big, big smile. It has dawned on Gilbert, his mind being a little quicker when sober, that this is probably the Detective the Russian asked him to punch, but being in handcuffs, he hasn't had the opportunity to punch the happy-go-lucky Detective. Yet.

"Can you hear me?" Detective Jones asks.

"I hear you," Gilbert answers.

"Do you understand why you're here?"

"Yeah, because I punched Kirkland in the Rabbit-face!" Gilbert laughs.

"Cut the joking, Braginski."

"What? I don't understand you."

Jones gives him a glare. "Really? How many white haired, weird eyed, creepy laughing Europeans can there be?"

"Obviously more than one, since you're mistaking me for someone else!"

"I'll admit I expected you to be taller, but seriously you fit the descriptions."

"The same vague descriptions! And besides, what was his name, Braginski? Do I sound like I would have a Slavic name like Braginski?"

"Witnesses have only said European. A couple have said Russian-"

"See? I'm not Russian; I'm German!"

"Which could easily be mistaken for Prussian."

"What? That's a weak deduction and you know it."

"Ivan Braginski, you're under arrest on account of multiple cases of murder, manslaughter, drug trafficking, hostage taking and tax evasion."

"How can one person even have the time to do all that?"

"You tell me, Braginski, now I want to see your hands. You have the right to remain silent-"

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><p><strong>End Notes:<strong>

**WF; Like the introduction! Well hope you did! DFTBA!**

**Laurel Silver; We're hoping to upload a new chapter on a weekly basis. However, school sucks so if we miss a week (which I doubt but manure occureth) you'll just have to bear with us**

**We own nothing.**


	2. I'll Be Your Burning Sun

**Authors' Notes;**

**Weapon Frayer; I feel you too, Laurel. The story will be updated every Sunday, with exceptions later in November, and possibly December. DFTBA!**

**Laurel Silver; thank you to Dreiks for correcting a German mistake in the title. I feel like a bit of an idiot.**

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><p><strong><strong>Für Gilbert, Von Liz<strong>**

****Chapter 2 - I'll be your burning sun****

[Love Me Again, John Newman]

Elizabeta wakes up, horrifically hungover. A breakfast of tea and toast and a total of five texts to Gilbert, and Elizabeta's sober enough to worry. Usually, Gilbert would have texted and called multiple times, messaged apologies full of holes; he knows he's done wrong and he's trying hard to take it back.

She calls. The phone rings. The phone is picked up, and a distinctively British voice answers; "Hello?"

"Who is this?" Elizabeta demands.

"This is Officer Kirkland. Am I right in assuming you are Gilbert's girlfriend?"

"Yes. Oh, fuck, what's happened to him?"

"He's got into a fight. And he's been mistaken for a mafia boss."

"What?!"

"Yep. A notorious 'Ivan Braginski'. I keep telling Jones that Gilbert is definitely Gilbert, but Jones is sure. And he's a great detective; if he says Gilbert's Braginski, and he'll go down as Braginski."

"_What?!_"

"He'll be put away for a damn long time. Jones will pull every string, favour and hand he can to get 'Braginski' put away for life, or even on Death Row if he can."

By this time, Elizabeta has pulled on a pair of shoes, jeans and a jacket over the shirt and Gilbert's boxers she'd thrown on this morning, and is almost down the stairs to the car. "He can do that?"

"Yep. Jones is charismatic, good looking, and by Christ he's good at what he does. He's got friends and favours in high up places. He's a demon. A sexy, clever demon, and he's gonna rule the worst of him, destroy everything good there is about him, and turn him into this Mafia devil, based on a few sketchy descriptions, and he'll do it well."

The car starts, spluttering far too much for Elizabeta's exasperation, and tears down the roads to the station.

Arthur 'Rabbit-face' Kirkland sits bolt upright as Elizabeta slams through the doors, expression like a deer in the headlights. "Elizabeta? Didn't recognise you from the voice."

"Same. Where's Gilbert?"

"Interrogation." Under Elizabeta's glare and demands to hurry, Rabbit-face gives Elizabeta directions to interrogation.

The door he points out is locked. Elizabeta rattles the door, hammers on it, shouts through.

"Lizchen?" Gilbert calls from the other side. "You need to be quiet. Don't attract that detective's attention, okay."

[Love Me Again, & Love Runs Out, One Republic]

Footsteps fade, and grow again. Silence, then a scratchy little scraping noise as a piece of paper is shoved under the door.

"Lizchen," it reads in Gilbert's smudged writing, "They think I'm some Russian guy!"

"I know. I'm gonna tell them they're being ridiculous, and they'll have to let you go."

"I don't know. I hope so. This guy sounds like a maniac to me."

"You'll be okay, I promise."

"I know. Mama raised me good, she raised me right. I say my prayers, I'm so devout. Got an angel on my shoulder. Etc etc etc."

"Yeah, you'll be fine. We can get through this, it's nothing."

"Hey, Lizchen, as sure as I am that this will all blow over and fuck off, if I do get sent down for being the Russian guy, you just carry on with life. See other people."

"What?!" Elizabeta screeches aloud, "You cannot be serious."

"I can't expect you to wait for me!" Gilbert shouts back, "I could be going down for _life_ for things Braginski's done. Murder, Lizchen, murder!"

"No! I can't let go of you like that!"

"I've made my mind up, Liz. If I go down, let me go and move on. If I don't, I'll be your light, your match, your burning sun, I'll be your ghost, your game, your stadium, I'll be your fifty thousand clapping as one, and I'll love you for God, for fate, for love, for hate, for gold, for rust, for diamond, for dust, or for whatever other indie metaphor mush you could possibly ever want, Lizchen, but if I go down I can't do that."

"I can write," Elizabeta argues, "And I'll wait for you to come out."

"No, Lizchen, listen to me _gottverdammt_ I might not be coming out! This guy's a murderer, he has killed people and he hasn't paid his taxes and I don't think anyone could get it through the Detective's thick skull that I'm not Braginski! Short of Braginski handing himself over, which I doubt he's ever going to do, I fucking screwed."

"What's going on?" a cheery American voice asks. The owner of a voice is a man with blond hair, blue eyes, lightly tanned skin, and a big, big smile on his face, "You alright, you lost, darlin'?"

"Don't call me 'darling'!" Elizabeta snaps, "You're locking my boyfriend up on the hunch that he might be a murderer."

"He fits the description, honey, the facts don't lie."

"Loose descriptions are not facts! And don't call me honey either!"

"Hey, Elizabeta?" Rabbit-face tugs gently on her sleeve, "There's nothing we can do, Lizzy-love, just leave the dickhead to it, and we'll work something out, yeah?"

[The Hangman's Body Count, Volbeat]

Detective Jones watched, too wide smile still in place, as Arthur coaxes Elizabeta away. Gilbert glares at him coldly as he opens the door to the interrogation room, and the smile drops.

"You're staying at the station until your court case, then being moved to a more secure location."

"Only if I lose the case."

"Oh, please, Braginski; I've been chasing you for years. I've got proof of every crime you committed, I've just never been able to pin _you_ down, you sneaky asshole. Now you're here, you're not getting away. If I had it my way, you'd be heading straight down to Death Row. And you know me; I'll fight till I get my way."

Jones practically throws Gilbert into a cell. Gilbert continues to glare from the floor, up at this hangman dressed in black. Judgement will prevail, not justice, and it is Jones's judgement putting the rope around Gilbert's neck instead of Braginski's.

And fifty thousand miles away, in a hideout in Russia, a figure dressed in white and purple snuggles into his girlfriend, their dog asleep on his feet, and the Russian is glad that the noose is around another man's neck, even if it's his name the wind is calling.

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><p><strong>End notes;<strong>

**Weapon Frayer; Hope you enjoyed; short story, I ran 'from' through Google Translate, and it came back as 'aus'. So I feel like an idiot for not asking my German friends who's in my class. *facepalms self***

**Laurel Silver; I'd wanted to call this story 'Love Runs Out' because Weapon Frayer managed to get this stuck in my head. Thanks.**

**'Chen' here is a shortened version of 'Herzchen', and I've been told adding it to the end of a name is endearing, like adding 'dear' or 'love'. But I've already proven myself not so good at German, so I could easily be wrong.**

**We own nothing!**


	3. She Will Walk With You

**Authors' Notes;**

**Weapon Frayer; Who wants to play a game? Well, look below!**

**DFTBA!**

**Laurel Silver; This is the chapter where we play "Guess Laurel's OTP"**

**I actually struggled a bit with this one, because I had to think up the songs myself. It's a lot harder than it sounds.**

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><p>[She is Beautiful, Andrew W.K.]<p>

It had been 1975 when Ivan first met Madeline. She was a waitress in a coffee shop in Montreal, working the graveyard shift, serving drinks and cakes with a soft, beautiful smile. She never noticed how fond of her the elder men had been; having had a sheltered life with protective parents and siblings, she simply didn't know any better.

She was, and still is, several years younger than Ivan, despite their birth years being only three years apart. But constantly jumping through time will make one older than they should be.

Ivan knows he's a wanted man, but back then he didn't have the notorious Detective Jones on his tail, so he could be afford to be a little sloppy when covering up his mistakes. Any mistake he made, any time he was caught for his crimes, he would simply turn back the clock and fix the mistake, be it killing a witness or wiping fingerprints away. Or trying a better pick up line on a beautiful Canadian.

For several hours now, he's sat in the corner booth, ordering and re-drinking the same coffee with a shot of maple syrup, as first recommended by Madeline when they first met several months ago. She comes over, from the man with the scarf and the scar on his forehead, and Ivan orders his coffee, without adding 'and dinner with you on Saturday' to the end, and Madeline smiles, saying "My favourite," and Ivan doesn't say 'I know' because that creeps her out. She walks away, and is back two minutes later with the coffee and a "Hope you enjoy it!" He's often then tried a line, and her reactions have ranged from bored to embarrassed to disgusted, but never reaches the more positive side of the scale. And then Ivan takes out his pocket watch, turns back time, and tries again. It's sad, he knows. But he's got nothing to lose.

Madeline, as she has every time, delivers the freshly cut slice of torte to the man with the scar on his forehead, goes to ask the Cuban to roll up his cigars outside, delivers an iced drink and some brownies to a lumberjack, and talks to a couple who seem to be struggling with understanding the menu half in French. For half past two in the morning, the place is busy.

This is the longest Ivan has been here in one sitting. It's all coming back; all the failed attempts to woo the beautiful young woman. He's never had anything to lose, since he can always go back in time and get it again, but he keeps throwing it away to talk to her, then going back and talking to her again. It's sad, and a whole new level of stalking, but he simply can't let it go. He's drawn to her, and he feels like a disgusting old pervert for being so attracted to her.

[Boulevard Saint Laurent, Coeur de Pirate]

Time is crawling it's way forwards, reaching quarter to three. The street is quiet, and late. Madeline glides about the coffee shop, twittering to the lumberjack in French, scolding the Cuban for rolling up another cigar inside, the man with the scar laughs at the scene. Madeline flushes a little red as the Cuban ignores her and the scarred man continues to laugh.

The room seems to flicker around them, and Madeline is suddenly twittering with the lumberjack again in French. The Cuban takes out his tobacco and paper, beginning to a cigar.

Shocked, Ivan dives a hand into his pocket. His watch is still there, and, looking it's intricately patterned face over, it is still set on half past two, waiting for Ivan to press the stopper at the top to travel back again.

"Sir, if you continue to disrespect the rules of the establishment, I will have to call for security," Madeline's voice is firm, but still says soft and sweet.

"I'm only rolling a cigar!" the Cuban snaps, "I'll smoke the fucker outside!"

"Please don't use that sort of language at me. And I have to insist you roll it outside."

"The wind sends the baccy everywhere! I'm not going to make a mess!"

"Rules are rules, sir."

Ivan frowns as the Cuban begrudgingly gathers up his tobacco and papers, heading outside, the bell tinkling as he goes. Had he just imagined the scene, the Cuban's rude ignorance, the scarred man's laughter?

Curious, he purposely knocks the coffee mug off the table, swearing loudly as it smashes against the tile. He grabs a napkin, mopping the hot liquid up, swearing even more as it soaks through the flimsy napkin and burns his fingers. And under his swearing, the deep, condensing chuckle of the scarred man sounds, exactly as Ivan remembers it.

Madeline helps him mop the last of it up with a cloth, skittering off to get him a refill. Watching her, Ivan realises that she's careful to skirt wide around the scarred man, who turns as she passes to watch her go. Perhaps she knows better than Ivan thought.

[Song of the Restless Youth, Russian folk song]

When she gets back out of the kitchen, coffee in hand, she frowns. She checks the clock, frown deepening, before she walks the uneasy distance across the shop to deliver the drink.

"What's wrong?" Ivan asks her.

"Just surprised you didn't take your pocket watch out after that incident," she says casually, "You did every other time you messed up."

"What?" Ivan asks, slack jawed.

"Your pocket watch. It's how you travel back in time," Madeline says calmly, rolling up her sleeve to reveal a watch, the face, golden and delicate, so similar to Ivan's pocket watch.

"You can time travel too?"

"Yes. I don't do it very often, though. I don't really know what I'm doing, and I don't want to cause some sort of paradox or worm hole and bring on the end of the world. I don't think my brother would ever forgive me if that happened."

"I know how to fix those," Ivan says calmly, "General Winter gave me my watch, and taught me everything about it."

"I don't know any General Winter. I found mine in my Dad's house, and he didn't recognise it, so I took it. I found out about the time travelling by accident."

Ivan nods in awkward understanding. "So, everything I've said to you…"

"I have remembered, every time," Madeline admits with a small laugh, "You're determined, aren't you?"

"I can't help it. I think it was the watches."

"How much have you actually used your watch?" Madeline asks with a small frown of simple concern, "How old are you?"

"I was born in 1952, or twenty three years ago. However, I have lived for forty seven years."

"Why would you need to travel that much?!" Madeline shrieks.

"Otherwise, I would be in prison," Ivan says bluntly, "I flatly refuse to pay my taxes. And there's a few cases of theft and murder and a few other things."

"What the fuck!" the scarred man, apparently Dutch judging by his accent, yells.

"We probably shouldn't have been talking about that in public." Madeline giggles a little as she speaks, and Ivan's heart, called over the uneasy distance of time, flutters.

"My watch is set to half past two. We can go back, I will come in ask for a coffee with a maple shot and dinner on Saturday. Will you say yes?"

"Dinner with a murderer twice my age?"

"I was born only three years before you."

Madeline purses her lips. "Alright. But no time jumping during dinner, got it?"

"Understood."

And Ivan winds his pocket watch back, and this time, glory has found him and he goes straight on.

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><p><strong>End Notes;<strong>

**Weapon Frayer; I has agree with below statement.**

**No, seriously, I support RusCan. Just not the smutty type (_if you're talking in yaoi terms..._) **

**Hope you enjoyed! Don't forget to R&R, follow and favorite, and DFTBA!**

**Laurel Silver; RusCan needs more love. The two biggest, northernmost nations, and nobody ships them?! C'mon guys, you can have anything from fluffly keep-warm-in-the-cold cuddles to Russia helping snapped!Canada get 'noticed' to Canada flaunting his French side on the largest nation.**

**The lumberjack is 2p!Canada, and yes the brownies are probably actually pot brownies  
>The Dutchman with the scarf and the scar on his forehead is Nederlands, obviously<br>The Cuban with the cigars is Cuba, obviously  
>The couple who don't understand French is any pairing you ship in which neither nation speaks French. I originally had TurkeyUkraine in mind.**

**We own nothing!**


	4. The Wheel Breaks The Butterfly

**Authors' notes;**

**Weapons Frayer; I was debating switching A Sky Full Of Stars and Paradise around, but eh, what's the difference?**

**Laurel Silver; Austria fans, look away now!**

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><p>[Bad Day, Daniel Powter]<p>

Weeks pass. Gilbert's trial comes and goes, Jones and the choir he preaches to finding the German guilty of a Russian's crimes, and Gilbert is moved away. Elizabeta is like a shell of the woman she is; her eyes are pinned to the floor, her feet drag, and she watches the leaves kicking up with a fake smile, hand clamped around a coffee to go.

Kiku notices the change in her almost immediately. They've been friends a long time, united by a love for obscure, homoerotic literature. Kiku has noticed Elizabeta change as the seasons had, blue skies fading to grey, and all the passion she had for anything has gone away.

"D'you know what you need?" Kiku says as he sits himself down opposite her.

"No hello?" Elizabeta jokes weakly.

"Hello. D'you know what you need?" Kiku repeats. "A holiday."

"I had a holiday in the summer," Elizabeta says.

"You had time off work, yes, but you didn't go anywhere. You need to go somewhere. You need a nice, blue sky holiday."

"I can't get time off again," Elizabeta says, "I just need to get on with my life, like Gilbert said."

"And how are you going to do that?" Kiku asks.

A pause. "I don't know."

"Even if it's just a day out!" Kiku persists, "Somewhere new, just to relax and start afresh. It'll do you wonders!"

"Don't lie." Elizabeta sulks.

"Just try it," Kiku says gently, "And when you make it back, you'll see that you can be that strong, enough to take one down and turn it around."

"I'll think about it," Elizabeta says. She doesn't bother saying goodbye to Kiku as she lets herself into her apartment building.

[A Sky Full of Stars, Coldplay]

Elizabeta dumps her jacket, changing out of one of her few 'nice' shirts into a t-shirt, throwing the singleton's napkin number into the waste basket as she takes off her nice shoes, and she sets about wiping away the makeup and shoving her hair back into a ponytail. For a few days already she's been trying to move on from Gilbert; she's been going on dates. Matchmaking gatherings, speed dating, page six lovers, and nothing has prevailed. She met Gilbert at the bar, a drinking contest. Irony.

Elizabeta flops back onto her bed. She's taken down all Gilbert's posters and crap off the walls, and now the apartment feels plain and dull. Staring up at the crack in the ceiling, she'd first seen it with Gilbert on top of her (and maybe Kiku's right that she needs to get away a while), her eyes grow heavy and close.

It feels like the first time she's had a dream without Gilbert in it. Instead of him, a different man appears, wandering seemingly aimlessly. Elizabeta can only make out brunet hair, and the occasional flash of milky skin as he turns his head about, or he folds hands behind his purple cloaked back. He keeps looking around, up at the sky full of stars, down at the dark ground, around at the empty horizon.

Elizabeta begins to run, trying to catch up with him. The world around her seems to get darker, and the man seems to glow, getting lighter and lighter the more it gets dark.

Almost caught up with him, she reaches out, trying to grab the man. Closer, he's taller than Gilbert, but slim. Glasses perch on his serious face, his clothes are pristine and well tailored, his skin is soft and unblemished save for a mole just off the corner of his lip.

[Paradise, Coldplay]

Elizabeta jolts awake, the room spinning and convulsing around as she gets to grips with her surroundings, the face of the man engraved into her mind's eye. Outside, the night is stormy, and she blatantly blames that for waking her up from her dream escape, for pulling the man away from her reach.

As her alarm begins screaming at her, she calls her boss, saying she's so sorry, but she has a rash on her side and she doesn't know what it is, but she's going to her doctor to get it looked, and she just doesn't want to spread a bug through the workplace so she'll be off work today. Her boss buys it.

Instead of visiting a doctor about her bullshit rash, she drives north east for just over two hours until she reaches Chicago. She remembers Vladimir moved here. She doesn't want to see Vladimir, the smirky Romanian being the last person she wants to see, but she remembers how excited he had been to move to Chicago. It'd be nice to finally find out what the bullet toothed boy had been so hyped up about.

Making like a tourist, she heads to the only Chicago attraction she knows; Millenium Park. The huge, green park is difficult to miss among the suburban paradise. An indie band are setting up instruments within the grand auditorium, tourists take their pictures under Cloud Gate, and children play and squeal in the Crown fountain.

Elizabeta wanders aimlessly through Lurie Garden, careful not to step on the nice flowers growing underfoot. She folds her hands behind her back, gazing around idly, mimicking the man as closely as she can remember.

She freezes at a flash of purple from the corner. There, staring up at a tree, is a brunet man dressed all in purple, hands folded behind him showing long, milky fingers threaded together.

Elizabeta walks up carefully, alarmed. The man continues to stare up at the tree, and as Elizabeta gets closer to him, she can make out the glasses, the pristine condition of the clothes, the mole just off his lips.

"Hello?" she asks.

"Hello," the man answers, turning her head, "Do I know you?"

"Uhm," Elizabeta stammers.

"I feel like we've met before," the man says, frowning slightly, "It'll come back to me. Roderich Edelstein." he extends a hand towards her.

"Elizabeta Hedervary," Elizabeta takes the hand, shaking it in a friendly way.

"Charmed," and Elizabeta blushes as he kisses the back of her fingers. "Your hands feel very calloused, my dear."

"Oh, I work in a factory," Elizabeta explains breathlessly, "We make frying pans."

"The wheel breaks the butterfly," Roderich says sadly.

"I beg your pardon?" Elizabeta asks, pulling her hand away.

"I just think it's such a shame that pretty girls are forced to work like men."

"I wasn't _forced_ to do anything!" Elizabeta snaps, "Yes, I do manual labour, but I get a decent wage of my own and don't need to depend on a man, and I like that! So what if my hand are a little calloused? Just makes it hurt more when I slap entitled men right across the face!"

"Well, that's just rude," Roderich scolds, "You shouldn't go slapping people; it unladylike!"

"Do I look I give a shit about 'ladylike'?!" Elizabeta shouts.

Roderich doesn't answer, and after glaring at him for several seconds, she storms back to her car.

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><p><strong>End notes;<strong>

**Weapon Frayer; I just realized this, but the story is basically a reverse American Idiot.**

**Yes, I know I used most of the songs from the album! But does it matter?**

**Laurel Silver; turned Roderich into a bit of a misogynist here. Sorry Austria fans!**

**Most of the attractions in Millennium Park weren't built until the Millennium change, so wouldn't even have been thought of in 1980. Just another example of time being wrong.**

**We own nothing**


	5. Graffiti In The Bathroom Stall

**Authors' Notes;**

**Weapon Frayer; Stupid me, forgot to add the chapter on Sunday. But no matter, because we here at Lewis and Silver Co. are up-to-date with hit music! (No, I'm being serious, now run before Russia wants to become one with you.)**

**DFTBA!**

**Laurel Silver; Addition of a couple of the Ancients in this chapter! But, Ancient Germania fans; look away now!****  
><strong>

**This chapter was also inspired by mashes of feminist poetry, which are referenced a couple of times. Unfortunately, I couldn't remember enough of any of them to be able to find them.**

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><p>[Jesus of Suburbia, Green Day]<p>

Elizabeta drives back to Illinois, hands too tight on the steering wheel until her knuckles are white against the black leather. Gilbert had insisted on a nice, expensive car, the pair having to save up for several months to get one. Volkswagen, of course.

Elizabeta's never been this angry, as long as she can remember. Sure, she'd been sharp and a little short tempered, like a coiled spring held down with just a splitting piece of thread. She has always been passionate in everything she did, a child of rage and love, so anyone she was angry with would know it and know it well. And when she was told to "Stop that; it's unladylike" her anger would be directed at the speaker. She was a wild child, with doctors trying to force feed her Ritalin, but the boys who behaved in exactly the same way were ignored or even praised for what the adults were calling 'masculinity'. Born and raised by hypocrites.

She pulls into the parking lot of the 7-11 college; Gilbert learnt a large amount of English in a cheap course here. Elizabeta had taken a few training courses here, paid for by her boss. She'd often had teachers trying to talk her out of it, and one had even blatantly refused to teach her, all because she has a "bumpy jumper". "Home is where the heart is" they'd tell her, shoving her in the direction of the Home Economics class down the corridor. One even made jokes about therapy when she'd said that no, she's definitely in the right room. More than once, she'd wanted to give up on her courses, sick of the sandwich jokes from the men surrounding her. She would end up locking herself in the ladies' room, fists clenching and unclenching as she would try not to smash the mirror in front of her.

She'd first seen the graffiti through the mirror; Sharpie words over the door of the bathroom stall. "I don't feel any shame, I won't apologise, because there's no where else I want to go. I won't run away from pain when I've been victimized; you're just a tale from another broken home, just like me."

Whoever this woman was, she'd written all over the bathroom. She seems to have been an angry woman, specifically at a man called Alaric, cursing the Germanic sounding man over and over, telling him, in detail, exactly where to shove his comments. She drew too, Celtic knots in all corners of the bathroom, fairies and unicorns and dragons and all kind of magical folk all over the walls. Elizabeta, when her hypocrite teacher would send her out for "being difficult" would spend the rest of the lesson in the bathroom, reading and re-reading the graffiti. It made her happy, and always lifted her spirits to know that she was not the only woman here full of anger that men wouldn't allow her to express. At the end of every lesson, a friend of hers, either Mattias or Ludwig, would fill her in on everything she'd missed, the two men working for a Germanic company and often ending up in the same classes as her. They were nice men, neither ever interested in making a move on Elizabeta as many other men had, or in making crude sexist jokes.

Sometimes, Elizabeta wonders how Matthias and Ludwig are doing; she hasn't seen them since she was in her teens. She wonders about Alaric, and more importantly the woman who had graffitied the bathroom.

Elizabeta's heart sinks as she gets into the bathroom. The room has been completely re-done; the walls painted white, new stalls, new tiles, and all that wonderful graffiti gone.

Elizabeta takes her old place, staring at herself in the mirror. She keeps hoping she can look up to see the old bathroom and it's words, but as time passes and nothing changes, Elizabeta only builds up and up, until she raises a fist, slamming it into the glass.

Jesus, she's wanted to do that for years.

Both hands, curled into fists, hammer against the mirror, smashing it into the tiniest pieces she can manage. She rips the weak plastic pipes from the wall, water spilling out everywhere, pulls on the stall doors until she tears them away, kicks the sinks until she chips and cracks and breaks them. She plugs up the toilets and flushes them, plugs up the sink and runs the taps, flooding the bathroom.

She runs out, leaving wet footprints trailing behind her. She rampages, throwing chairs, ripping displays off the walls, breaking windows, kicking the walls until plaster falls away. She shoves people. knocking them backwards into their classrooms or offices.

Her old teacher, Professor A. Germania, comes storming out of his classroom. "Hedervary!" he barks, seemingly slightly shocked to see her, "What in the hell do you think you're doing?"

Elizabeta doesn't answer, sizing up to the blond old man, squaring her shoulders to reach his height better, completely toe to toe with him. She stares at him, eyes narrowed, and he stares back calmly, almost boredly. Until she jerks her head forward, her forehead smashing into his soft nose with a crack, and blood spurts down onto his lips.

Someone laughs. The redheaded home economics teacher stand there, clapping, green eyes shining as she grins and laughs, "I've wanted to do that for years," she speaks in a North British accent even thicker than Rabbit-face's, "Good on ye', lass."

Elizabeta nods with a smirk. From behind the redhead, a girl screams "_Anarchy_!" and the redhead steps aside to let her class aside as they run rampage, throwing things, ripping things, kicking things, sticking their middle fingers with their pretty little rings up in the boys' faces, spitting and cursing in the male teachers' faces.

Within minutes, it seems practically all the students are fighting or vandalising, and Professor Germania looks like he's about to have a heart attack. Elizabeta, with one final nod to the redhead, flees, barely hearing Germania slur something at the redhead intelligibly, to which the redhead simply answers; "You've had it coming to ye' fa' too long, Alaric, and now it's 'it ye' at last."

Hours later, the police arrive, Officer Kirkland trying to ignore his mother pulling faces at him from the home economics classroom as he tries to interview Professor Alaric Germania.

"Elizabeta Hedervary," Alaric says, "That's who did it."

"What are you saying, sir?" a voice asks, "A _girl_ beat you up?"

In the doorway stands a man in a red polo shirt and jeans, biker boots reaching his knees. His blond hair stands upright as if he's been electrocuted, and he smirks like he's just heard the most ridiculous thing in the world.

"What are you doing here, Mattias?" Alaric demands.

"Was just driving past, and saw that my old college was going crazy," Matthias answers, "Though it was a party, came to crash it, but instead I find you trying to tell me a _girl_ beat up a _man_. That's bullshit, sir, didn't you say "Girls are too delicate to do anything more than stroke the head of her child"?"

Alaric glares at Mattias, and Officer Kirkland has to hide his smirk as his mother silently cheers Matthias on from her classroom. "Do you have anything to add to your statement, or anything to change?" he asks innocently, letting his accent become as much like his mother's as he can.

"He looked a little like Elizabeta," Alaric says as firmly as he can, and Matthias fails to smother a snort of laughter, "Didn't she have a brother?"

"Ah, yes, Daniel," Matthias bullshits, "They look a lot alike, and what with Lizzie so often having her hair in a ponytail it's really easy to mix them up from the front."

"It was Daniel," Officer Kirkland agrees, scrawling in his notebook, nodding to Alaric as he leaves.

"You're not going to arrest this 'Daniel' are you, Artie?" his mother asks in a hiss, slightly concerned.

"There is no 'Daniel'," Artie answers, "I just know Alaric's a sexist dickhead, like you told me, and anyway Liz's got enough on her plate without this bullshit."

"Are you supposed to bend the truth like that?" Matthias asks.

"Nope, I stand accused," Artie shrugs, "Life's too short for perfection in the details. I'll say he didn't know who it was, and since it's just a 7-11, no one will chase it up, and I don't think Alaric will be chasing up if it means he has to admit that a woman was strong enough to break his nose."

His mother scoffs. "He's always has been a dick."

* * *

><p><strong>Weapon Frayer;<strong>

**Of happenings! Later chapter finally of dones!**

**That means I can into write collab!**

**Sorry about that; it's just that my Polandball addiction is acting up again. **

**For all of you Green Day fans (myself and Laurel stand accused) out there, Jesus of Suburbia is usually divided into 5 parts. However, before I could get around to Google Doc'ing Laurel, she had already written the part. **

**Basically, long story short, the lyrics are peppered through the chapter. Try to find out an entire verse!**

**DFTBA!**

**Laurel Silver; The red-head economics teacher is Ancient Celt, or Arthur's mother. She's also the one who graffitied the bathroom.  
>Alaric Germania is Germania. Obviously.<br>Matthias is Denmark.  
>Daniel is nyo!Hungary.<br>**


	6. Livin' On A Prayer

**Authors' notes;**

**Weapon Frayer; DFTBA!**

**Laurel Silver; Introducing Romania, and another ancient; the personification of Hun**

* * *

><p>[Parfüm, Boggie]<p>

Elizabeta heaves the bag over her shoulder, stalking out of the building with as much pride as can muster, Alaric and Elizabeta's old landlord, who just would be Alaric's best fucking buddy wouldn't he, staring her down as she goes. She glares back as she dumps her bag in the back of her car and climbs in.

She doesn't know what to do. She doesn't know where to go. A text from her boss this morning told her that he, too, was a buddy of Alaric's, and she was fired. That Germanic bastard's got his fingers in all the pie, hasn't he? No wonder that red-head home economics teacher had hated him so much.

Something smells. Not bad, it's a nice smell, pretentiously dainty and obnoxiously pleasant like a spilt bottle of perfume. Floral, predominantly.

Elizabeta sniffs the air, until she tracks the scent down to the glove box. Opening it, she finds a damp cardboard box of perfume samples; a passive-aggressive dig-in-the-ribs present from her school rival, horror lover Vladimir Popescu. She'd kept the present, occasionally wearing the perfumes when she'd dolled up for something, but had never found anything to retaliate with. Thin little bottles of rose and nerium, myrrh and almond, dreams of flowers, sweet, bitter, mellifluous, bringing back so many memories of that smug smile with it's too-long canines and it's verbal challenges dripping with it's light second-generation Romanian accent.

With a sigh, she clicks the green button on her phone, the select bar enlightening the name "Sucker" on her contact list. "Hey, Vlad... It's Liz... I need a place to crash… Please? I'll pay rent. As soon as I have a job... I'll get a job, quick pace... I've got a shit ton of qualifications, I've trained loads... I'll get any job I can get my hands on, I just need somewhere to stay until I can get back on my feet, I am _begging _you here."

* * *

><p>Vladimir Popescu hasn't done bad for himself. He explained his horror writings took off, and with a laugh he admitted his specialty is vampires. "Don't mind the decorations," he says, "My own work, fan contributions, memoirs from meeting other horror legends."<p>

None of it disturbs Elizabeta too much; she's googled the English translations of Rammstein for fuck's sake! It's all so creepy, any horror fan would cream themselves at the memorabilia and merchandise gathered, and so much of it's signed and the official thing; this flat holds things that Elizabeta wouldn't recognise and would think nothing of, but a horror nerd would pay millions for.

"The spare room's a lot less cluttered," Vladimir says with that trademark fucking smirk of his, "Kind of plain, actually. My parents really hate this stuff, it gives both of them the creeps, so I keep it clear for the both of them."

"That's good of you," Elizabeta answers plainly, "I'm going to take a nap. Long and slightly shitty day."

With only a few vague, purposely frustrating points from Vladimir, Elizabeta finds the room. It looks like a generic hotel room; white and whiskey brown, with long curtains, a double bed, an empty table with sockets waiting to be plugged into. A large misshapen mirror is the only thing interesting about the room, like one of those large three-panel mirrors that usually stand much smaller atop a dresser. It's side panels stand at odd, non matching angles, and Elizabeta can't change that; they seem to be stuck that way.

[Livin' on a Prayer, Jon Bon Jovi] Giving up, Elizabeta flops down onto the bed. Taking up the newspaper bought as she'd arrived in Chicago, she flips straight to the 'Jobs' pages, flicking through them impatiently. A job on the docks catches her eye, until it specifies they're looking for a man, sexist bastards. Elizabeta has all those qualifications except the genitalia, and that's nothing short of damned annoying. The only advertisement she can find not asking for a man is a job at Gina's cafe. It sounds like the best she's going to get. She hates having to be polite to rude people, but the money's more important until she can get something better. It's not like she can run away from her financial responsibilities.

Something knocks. Thinking it's the door, just Vladimir probably with some snide remark, Elizabeta shouts "Come in."

The door doesn't open. Elizabeta thinks she just imagined it, until it comes again. This time, she drags herself from the bed to answer it personally.

Nobody's there. Elizabeta rolls her eyes at the nothing, thinking Vladimir's trying to scare her; it had been one of his favourite hobbies to scare the little children a few years younger them on the playground, especially the easily scared Vargas quadruplets, who would hide themselves behind Elizabeta and that cheery Hispanic boy Antonio.

But the shower's running and steam is rising from behind the closed bathroom door, and Vladimir's singing what sounds like Romanian nursery rhymes, suggesting he's been in the shower a while, so it couldn't have been him knocking.

[Miss Murder, AFI]

It must have just been her imagination. Vladimir's creepy memorabilia has shook her up more than she thought, and now she's imagining creepy cliche things. She'll be hearing voices of the dead next.

"_Elizabeta…_"

Any sensible person would have fled like the hound of hell were on their heels. But Elizabeta has always been stubborn and courageous and stupidly, insatiably curious, so like a typical white person in horror film, she looks around for the source of the noise, fists raised in a guard.

"_Liz, my dear…_" the voice speaks to her in Hungarian, and the guard drops as Elizabeta recognises the voices.

"_Liz, turn around,_" and Elizabeta obeys. She's always trusted her father, followed his teaching and trainings carefully, and she firmly believes he is what shaped her into being so 'masculine' and 'unladylike' now. She also firmly believes that he's what has made her so stubborn. His effects have lasted her whole life, even after he passed away.

In the misshapen mirror, her father is visible, as tall and proud as he had been in life. As well as a large chunk of her personality, Elizabeta has inherited her tall frame, long body and the soft brown of her hair from her father's side of the family. His eyes, a leathery brown in colour, are wider than his daughter's and as cracked as the rest of his face with laughter lines. His hair is wiry and flattened, his common style being best described as 'constant helmet hair'. He worked almost all of his life, a cheap manual labourer, his Hungarian roots being the perfect excuse to give him less money for a longer shift and harder work than an American, but he'd taken it, working himself to exhaustion to pull the money to give Elizabeta the best life he could provide for her. A generous man, how the neighbours had all adored him.

"_What are you doing here?_" Elizabeta asks in the language she hasn't spoken since she moved out of her mother's house. "_How are you even here_?"

"_Told the angels to let me come,_" her father says with a laugh, "_Well, I didn't really tell them to. With just a look, they shook, and the heavens bowed before me. I spiraled down, left them all behind, and here I am._"

"_But why?_" Elizabeta asks.

"_I think you could do with some fatherly advice. Things don't seem to be too great for you right now, my dear_."

"_No,_" Elizabeta admits with a huff of a laugh, "_It really isn't._"

"_You remember when you were little, and whenever we were really struggling you and me would pray to God, and then we'd work hard to make those prayers to come true?_"

"_You're telling me a need to pray_?"

"_Yes,_" her father nods, "_I promise there's always someone listening_."

"_But it was us who made the prayers come true,_" Elizabeta argues, "_We would work extra to get more money, I would study harder for better grades, it was us who made all that happen, not some deity!_"

Her father sighs, "_If anything, it can help you organise your priorities. And they're listening, and I promise you that they do help, more than either of us ever knew. They would give us the opportunities to make our prayers come true; they made sure there were extra jobs and shifts available, they made sure you had time and motivation to study, they kept us both healthy to keep working. They helped, at the very least._"

"_You really think it will help me_?"

"_I'd bet my life on it._"

"_But you're dead_."

Her father stares at her, then laughs with his deep, infectious belly-laugh. The mirror seems to glow, and the ghost Elizabeta has always loved, a ray of light over her life, fizzles out without hope of him returning.

[Please please please let me get what I want, The Smiths]

Elizabeta sits down on the guest bed, toying with the end of her pyjama shirt. It's worth trying a prayer, even if it only helps her to organise her thoughts at least she'll know what she's doing. Her father's advice has never failed her yet, and she'd be shocked if this would be the first time.

Knelt on the floor, elbows on the bed, hand folded, head bowed. "Lord, I ask for good times for a change. See, the luck I've had could turn any good person bad. I've lost my best friend and love, my home, my job. I wish for a chance to help Gilbert clear his name. I wish for somewhere to stay without feeling like a guest to a host I'm not sure is reliable as a friend. I wish for a job which will bring me a decent wage that I can support myself on. Amen."

She climbs back onto her bed, deciding to apply for a job at that diner tomorrow. After that, she'll find herself a hostel to stay in, or a cheap apartment, or someone looking to split the cost of a habitable apartment.

With a sigh, Elizabeta heaves herself under the heavy duvet, forcing herself to relax.

And in an alternate dimension we'll refer to as heaven, for the sake of giving it a name, a man known as Attila Hedervary bugs a creature we'll refer to as an angel, again for the sake of giving it a name, to let his daughter get what she wants. Lord knows, it'll be the first time.

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><p><strong>Weapon Frayer; I start writing my parts in the next chapter. Also, fan service may (probably not) be included in later chapters.<strong>

**DFTBA! Don't ****forget to R&R, follow and favorite, be awesome!**

**Laurel Silver; This is the last chapter I do on my own, after this Weapons Frayer has a bigger influence; after realising we both used Google Drive I shared the document and now we both write on it and the planning documents. It's been a lot easier than the whole DocX process, to be honest.**

**We own nothing!**


	7. Carry On My Wayward Child

**Weapon Frayer; DFTBA~**

**Laurel Silver; Lots of italics in this chapter. Sorry!**

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><p>[Counting Stars, OneRepublic] And now Gilbert's losing sleep, dreaming up this scheme of his to bring him and Elizabeta back together. Together they were unstoppable, counting their dollars and counting their stars. They're young, and they are both definitely bold.<p>

Elizabeta settles herself back into Vladimir's guest bed, relaxing easily into the mattress. All she can do now is work hard, like she has done all her life, and hope she gets herself a decent job. Then again, 'hope' is a four-letter word.

Tired, she falls asleep almost as soon as her head hits the pillow.

[Team, Lorde] Elizabeta wanders through a town, looking vaguely like her hometown in Champaign. It's run down, the kind of city you'd never see on the silver screen because it's just not very pretty. Broken shards line the street, hounds yap at the chains leashing them to the walls, strange pretty ladies dance about in all their finery with a hundred jewels on their throats, their skin glowing in the full moonlight.

Elizabeta wanders, staying out of the way of the dancing women and the snapping jaws of the hounds. Of course, her home town hadn't had these strange dogs and women when she was a child. It feels surreal; these ruins of a palace of memories bathing in reflected white light.

A soft music echoes through the streets, and Elizabeta follows it, not knowing what else to do with herself here. It's gentle, almost like a lullaby. As Elizabeta gets closer, a male singing voice joins it, too distant to make out the words.

[Safe and Sound, Capital Cities] Closer and closer, and voice gets louder and louder, and clearer and clearer. The voice has an Italian accent, and as Elizabeta enters the old theater the singing emits from, she isn't surprised to see Romulus Vargas standing there belting his heart out, his handsomeness showing exactly what part of the family the Vargas quadruplets she'd used to babysit got their looks from.

"_I could lift you up_," he sings in his deep, melodic voice, "_I could show you what you wanna see, and take you where you wanna be_."

Romulus used to sing all the time, belting out songs in both English and Italian, putting many a wanna-be singer to shame. "_You could be my luck, even if the sky is falling down, I know that we'll be safe and sound_, _we're safe and sound_." He was never famous as many of their neighbours had said he should have been; foreigners don't get famous. "_I could fill your cup, you know my river won't evaporate, this world we still appreciate_." Romulus's skin was too dark for him to be famous, the White Americans would have had a heart attack at the mere thought of it, despite him being able to pull any straight woman of any colour with his beauty.

"Eliza!" he cries as he finally sees her, walking her way down the aisle towards the stage, "Oh, how you've grown. You look so much like your father, but so much like your mother, and it is so very pretty on you~"

"Ever the sweet-talker," Elizabeta says with a grin, "What are you even doing here?"

"I tyed God up to come visit every one," Romulus says calmly, as if that's a perfectly normal thing to do.

"And I'm included in 'every one'?" Elizabeta asks, shocked.

"Of course you are, bella!" Romulus says, happiness seeming to erupt from body, "You were so important to me and my family. The boys loved you to pieces; you were like their big sister they never had. And, I know things have been kinda tough for you lately."

"It's nothing I can't handle," Elizabeta says indignantly.

"Of course it's nothing you can't handle! You're one of the strongest girls I know! You're a bit scary sometime, ve! But everyone needs a little reminder to keep their head up every now and again! _You could be my luck, even in a hurricane of frowns, I know that's we'll be safe and sound._"

[Carry on my Wayward Son, Kansas] Elizabeta smiles, sitting herself down on the front row of the empty seats.

"_Carry on my wayward child, there'll be peace when you are done, lay your weary head to rest, don't you cry no more_."

A guitar starts up, a loud riff as epic as Romulus's voice, and Gilbert comes sliding out from behind the curtain, a black and white lefty-guitar singing between his pale hands. The curtains open to reveal Roderich at the piano, and Matthias laid in a ridiculous 'seductive' pose across the top of the piano with a goofy grin on his face. Ludwig stands by the piano, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as he blatantly refuses to even look at Matthias's idiocy.

"_Once I rose above the noise and confusion, just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion, I was soaring ever higher, but I flew too high._" Roderich plays the piano as Romulus sings, both Weillschmidt brothers dragging Matthias off the piano top. "_Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man, though my mind could think I still was a mad man, I hear the voices when I'm sleeping, I can hear them say;_" Gilbert grins as he plays the guitar, Matthias headbanging that crazy hair alongside the albino, and Ludwig awkwardly tries to copy, his hair too short and gelled down to be effective, on the other side of his brother. "_Carry on my wayward child, there'll be peace when you are done, lay your weary head to rest, don't you cry no more_."

Romulus headbangs and jumps around with the boys, "_Masquerading with a man with a reason, my charade is the event of the season, and if I claim to be a wise man, well, that surely means that I don't know._" Roderich just watches from the piano, lips pursed in a mimped, prissy manner. "_On a stormy sea of moving emotion, tossed about I'm like a ship on the ocean, I set a course for winds of fortune, But I still hear them say;_" And Gilbert, Matthias and Ludwig sing along in varying degrees of in-tune as Romulus sings; "_Carry on my wayward child, there'll be peace when you are done, lay your weary head to rest, don't you cry no more_."

Gilbert and Ludwig are mostly in-tune with their singing, but Matthias is terrible, completely off-key but belting the song out anyway, Roderich visibly grimacing at every bum note. "_Carry on, you will always remember, carry on, nothing equals the splendor, now your life is no longer empty, surely heaven waits for you._"

"_Carry on my wayward child, there'll be peace when you are done, lay your weary head to rest, don't you cry no more!_"

Gilbert leaps off the stage to hug Elizabeta as she gives them a standing ovation. Matthis and Romulus bow deeply, and Ludwig bows as Romulus and Matthias basically force him to. Roderich remains at the piano.

"How are you even here?" Elizabeta asks Gilbert.

"Because you're dreaming," Gilbert answers plainly.

"Are you supposed to tell her that?" Romulus asks.

"We have to go deeper!" Matthias yells. As everyone just stares at him, he clarifies; "Inception reference." Gilbert and Elizabeta nod and accept it, but Romulus, Ludwig and Roderich remain confused.

"But does that mean that those two are going to come and separate us again?" Elizabeta asks worriedly.

"I don't know," Gilbert answers honestly, "But I hope not."

"Come sing!" Romulus cries, blatantly interrupting them, "Come dance, be happy, smile, laugh, sing!"

[(Stronger) What Doesn't Kill You, Kelly Clarkson] Gilbert tugs Elizabeta onto the stage, Romulus twittering at Roderich, who doesn't look happy about it in the slightest. Matthias and Ludwig jump up and down, dancing about with Elizabeta and Gilbert as they sing along with Romulus; "_What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, stand a little taller, doesn't mean I'm lonely when I'm alone. What doesn't kill you makes a fighter, footsteps even lighter, doesn't mean I'm over 'cause you're gone_."

And as Romulus, Gilbert, Roderich, Matthias fade away, Elizabeta can only smile as she drifts into a peaceful, awake consciousness.

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><p><strong>Weapon Frayer; I really can't wait for the next chapter. *grins* Or two. :)<br>**

**Laurel Silver; Romulus is, of course, Grandpa Rome. The quadruplets are Veneziano, Romano, Seborga and Vatican City. I know Vatican City isn't an official character, but oh well.**

**We own nothing**


	8. How Can I Feel This Good Sober?

**Weapon Frayer; These notes are coming in on Friday (in my time zone), so note that this is VERY rushed.**

**Also, one of my favorite songs ever is coming in the next chapter! 'Guess Laurel's OTP' has been greenlighted for another season!**

**(I am also relying on Laurel to update this, as to not disappoint our UK readers, so please get this in as soon as you can!)**

**Right, so don't forget to R&R, favorite and follow, and DFTBA!**

**Laurel Silver; and... *update***

**Note of pairings; GerIta, and polygamous!Nordics. We need more polygamous ships. And some platonic DenGer, because we need more platonic ships, too. Think outside the box a little, people, us Hetlians have so much to work with.**

* * *

><p>[I won't give up, Jason Mraz]<p>

Ten months have passed since Gilbert's arrest. Elizabeta landed the job at Gina's Diner, and moved out of Vladimir's condo into a small, one-bedroom flat she can afford well.

The sun rises from behind the courthouse, making it a glow a bright orange like a star fallen to the earth. Elizabeta enters almost as soon as the doors open, determined. For the past few months, she has been trying to get the state legislature to clear Gilbert's name, to get them to understand that the 'evidence' making Gilbert appear to be Ivan Braginski is weak and useless and most importantly wrong, but so far they've been ignoring her and turning the legislature down, Detective Jones being far too powerful for Elizabeta to fight. But Elizabeta isn't someone who will walk away so easily; she's determined to stay and make the difference she can.

"They turned it down, again?"

The receptionist, a man with long brunette hair tied in a bunch with a ribbon and glitter stickers on his name tag 'Toris', just smiles sadly. "They threw it out as soon as they saw the name. They said there's no point reading the same thing again. I'm sorry, Miss Hedervary, but whatever you're fighting for is a lost cause."

"My boyfriend is not a lost cause!" Elizabeta snaps, making Toris jump, "He has been falsely accused, and I will clear his name!"

Toris nods in frightened agreement, and, with a punch to his desktop before she turns away, Elizabeta storms out of the courthouse, the paperwork to her case crumpling into illegibility in her tensing hands.

[Sober, P!nk]

Wrigleyville Bar is only three blocks away. It's run-down and could do with several things updating including the furniture and the cash register, but it's cheap and that's all that matters to most of it's regulars.

The bar-tender is a small man with a terrible tremble to his work-calloused hands and a heavy Slavic accent; Latvian he says. He talks little of his past, or what causes him to shake the way he does, or as to why he drinks more alcohol than he hands out, or how he can run a business consuming more of his product than he sells. He's good at remembering people's drinks, though, and pulls a shot of pálinker as she sits down at the bar.

"Turned down again?" he asks plainly.

"Yep," Elizabeta answers equally plainly.

Of course the bartender, Raivis his name is, knows about Gilbert. He's supported her at four o'clock in the morning when she's broken down in agony and just needed a friend. Without Raivis, Elizabeta would be alone in Chicago without someone to vent to. A little sad that it's the bartender she's befriended; puts the current state of her life into perspective, but Elizabeta doesn't like to dwell on it. Raivis might not be much of a talker, but he's a great listener.

[The Boys Are Back In Town, by Thin Lizzy]

Two hands, bent into two-fingered pistols, dig into Elizabeta's sides just below her ribs, and she jumps in shock. Matthias leans around, grinning, and straightens up on the stool next to Elizabeta. Ludwig takes the seat on her other side, ordering a pint of beer, preferably German, and a pint of lager, preferably Danish, for the idiot with the big hair, said idiot with the big hair flipping Ludwig the bird.

"What are you two doing here?" Elizabeta asks, shocked to see them both. The last time she'd seen the wild-eyed boys was back at the 7-11 as she'd finished her last course, a first-aid course, that the three of them had aced. At the time, Ludwig had had a crush on the youngest of the Vargas quadruplets, whom he had met at a Christmas party Elizabeta and Gilbert had held, and Matthias had been struggling with his own heart pining after four different people. Of course, Elizabeta had been keeping up with the nature of their relationships, but after their contact had been completely severed, she couldn't.

"We were headed here, to Chicago, for this awesome concert, and then we got this phone call saying we need to try the Wrigleyville bar," Matthias explains, "Some weird Slavic guy, saying the alcohol was cheap. So here we are, because alcohol."

"And what about you?" Ludwig asks, "What are you doing here?"

"I come here a lot," Elizabeta admits, "Most days, actually, after getting Gilbert's appeal turned down again."

"Wait, what?" Ludwig asks, completely confused.

"You don't know?" Elizabeta asks. Ludwig shakes his head, and Matthias frowns. "He was arrested. Like, ten months ago."

"What in the hell for?" Ludwig demands, voice beginning to climb in volume.

"He was drunk-"

"Of course he was," Matthias interrupts with a laugh.

"And he got into a fight with a policeman. Then this detective came to the conclusion that he's this notorious Mafioso and slammed him away almost immediately."

"Well, that escalated quickly," Matthias deadpans as Ludwig can only stare.

Ludwig seems to glaze over, muttering to himself in German into his beer. Matthias drinks his lager slowly, Elizabeta downs her pálinka and orders another.

"So apart from Gilbert getting himself arrested, how's your life been?" Matthias asks.

"Pretty shit," Elizabeta answers bluntly, "What about yours?"

"Meh," Matthias says vaguely with a non-committal hand wiggle, "There's been good things, there's been bad things."

"Your quartered heart?" Elizabeta asks.

"Still in quarters, but together," Matthias answers. As Elizabeta frowns at him, he explains; "Ever heard of polygamy? It turned out one of the guys I liked, Tino, also liked Berwald, one of the other guys I liked, and then he was like "Ever heard of polygamy? Let's have an orgy!" So now I'm kinda with all four of them. And it's fucking awesome."

Elizabeta pulls a face, downs her pálinka and orders another.

"Ludwig got with little Vargas, too," Matthias says, "Proposed just a few months ago. They're gonna get married in Massachusetts. We didn't think we were gonna see you again in time to give you an invite, but here you are. I don't have an invite. Fuck. We've got some in the car, if you're interested."

"Of course I'm interested," Elizabeta says, "Weddings are the cutest. Raivis;" she downs the pálinka.

"You can't come if you're just going to get drunk," Matthias scolds, "I know I drink a lot. but that's four shots you've just had in under five minutes; that can't be healthy."

"Get off me," Elizabeta snaps as Matthias takes her by the arm, Ludwig snapping out of his trance to confiscate the fresh shot, glaring a warning to Raivis, making the small Latvian tremble in fear, not that that takes a lot.

The sharp slap rings through the room as Matthias reels back, falling to the floor.

"We need to get you home," Ludwig says quietly.

"Okay, Gil," Elizabeta answers. She falls asleep on Ludwig's shoulder as he carries her out, Matthias tossing a small collection of notes at Raivis before he follows them.

* * *

><p><strong>Weapon Frayer; So...that was kind of uncalled for. [LS; sorry. Ish. It was necessary.]<strong>

**Anyways, hope you enjoyed it! DFTBA!**

**Laurel Silver; Gay marriage became legal in Massachusettes in 1980, so here time is 'making sense'**

**Ludwig and Matthias here are friends from the 7-11, who now often go to concerts and/or drinking together. They also eat lots of potatoes together. Whoo, stereotypes!**

**We own nothing**


	9. Just Breathe

**A/N:**

**Weapons Frayer; Next chapter is my favorite!**

**Laurel Silver; for those of you who struggled in the last round of "Guess Laurel's OTP", here's a second round for you!**

* * *

><p>[Boulevard of Broken Dreams, Green Day] Gilbert wanders down the empty, lonely hallway. It's evening, most inmates are sleeping, dreaming, and the air is suffocatingly silent. The grey walls and floor have become almost like a home to him, even if it cages him from his old dream of living and working, free to be Gilbert and to love Elizabeta, to send spam e-mails to Ludwig and help Matthias to shove feminist, pro-choice leaflets through Alaric's letterbox, usually given to them by Miss Kirkland with a grin and a cheeky wink. Small dreams, but good enough for Gilbert.<p>

His cell door closes with a finalising clang as it locks. Gilbert slumps down onto his uncomfortable bed, massaging the back of his neck in an attempt to relax. He throws his head back onto a thin pillow, and tries to sleep.

A face fills his vision. It's female, yet too soft and feminine-pretty to be Elizabeta. A pair of oval glasses balance on a slightly upturned nose, making pale purple eyes seem huge. Curly blonde hair cascades down around the face like a silky halo. A soft voice calls, the face's mouth moving in tandem with it, Gilbert barely being able to make out the words "Vanya… are you okay?"

"Who's Vanya?" Gilbert grunts, and the face frowns.

Gilbert blinks, and the woman is gone, the cracked grey ceiling hanging high above him. Blink again, and she's back, and the ceiling is lower and whiter and less cracked and the room is warmer and cosier. Every few seconds he seems to switch, from warmth to cold, from white to grey, from alone to the company of the woman, from silence to the soft voice.

He throws his head to the side, to face where the mirror in his cell should be. As the woman vanishes again, he catches a glimpse in the mirror for just a few seconds. His red eyes have paled to a cool violet, his hair had lengthened to messy mop, his face is more wrinkled and older. He has somehow become taller, his jumpsuit now a couple of inches too short and clinging to his belly now puffed with a layer of winter fat. Scars and tattoos line his skin, and something cold and heavy weighs his pocket down.

Gilbert pulls the pocket watch out, just staring at it. It's a little golden thing, unengraved and very plain, a short chain hanging from the top. He presses the button and the front cover pops open. The face is complex, with not three but seven different hands. A border of lines surround the clock face, the tips of four of these hands reaching various places on the border. These four are not moving, but the other three are whirring madly, first clockwise then back anti clockwise, stopping on quarter past twelve on the second every time. A single hole gapes in the very centre, a tiny key concealed in the inside of the cover.

Gilbert takes the key out carefully, matching it up with the hole and pressing it in. It moves easily, and as soon as it clicks into place, his surroundings stop flickering back and forth immediately, stopping in a strange golden area full of a glowing mist. The place smells salty, and bells seem to be ringing somewhere in the distance. The place feels surreal, dreamlike.

[What do you want from me?, Adam Lambert] The woman frowns at him "Do you think that you could move, eh?" she asks, voice still soft and smooth despite the clear impatience woven into the words.

"Huh?" is Gilbert's only answer before a hard, heavy hand knocks into his ribs, shoving him to the side, and Gilbert realises he had been sitting on someone.

The someone, the man from his reflection, sits up, rubbing his stomach where Gilbert had seemingly been sitting, the woman fawning over him.

"Who in the _hell_ are you two?" Gilbert demands.

The pair blink at him. The man turns away, seemingly embarrassed, grabbing his partner and pulling her close, almost hiding behind her.

"I'm Madeline," she introduces, "And this is Ivan."

"Ivan?" Gilbert asks, "You're the motherfucker that got me arrested!"

Ivan hides behind Madeline, but Gilbert tries to get round her to glare the man down, the act only ending in a game of Here We Go 'Round the Madeline.

"Stop it!" Madeline snaps. Gilbert stops in his tracks, and Ivan reels back as if she's thrown boiling water over his head.

Madeline glares at Ivan. Ivan stares at his feet, playing with his scarf in his thick fingers, and Gilbert is reminded of a teacher scolding a small child.

"I'm really sorry I got you arrested," Ivan says eventually, Russian, not German and definitely not Prussian, accent heavy and prominent in his speech.

"Really?" Gilbert retorts, "Well, 'sorry' doesn't get me out of prison, does it? It doesn't get my name cleared, does it? It doesn't get me back to my life, does it?"

"I'm working that out!" Ivan whines.

"Work it out faster!" Gilbert snaps.

"We're working on it!" Madeline snaps back, "This is a difficult thing to fix!"

"What is?" Gilbert demands.

"Your arrest lead to a paradox," Madeline explains, "Paradoxes can usually be avoided, but you ending up in prison created one. We're not sure why, but we need to fix it."

"So, what, you've got to bust me out of prison?" Gilbert asks, confused.

"No, that's not how paradoxes work," Madeline says.

"Oh, so paradoxes have rules, do they?" Gilbert asks.

"Yes," Ivan answers, "To fix them, we have to eliminate them. To eliminate them, we have to get everyone involved in the paradox back to the original place the offshoot happened, and go back to just before it started and stop the actions that caused the paradox from happening again, and then the timeline will fix itself from there."

"Of course, it's not a foolproof plan," Madeline adds, "Because timelines can't really be 'fixed'. There will always be cracks in it, and memories from the offshoot will seep over. Muggles call it deja vu."

"Muggles?" Gilbert asks.

"Non-time travelling folk," Madeline says with a grin. Gilbert just frowns.

"Where were you arrested?" Ivan asks.

"College campus," Gilbert answers, "Me and Liz got _completely_ smashed. Some Slavic guy over the phone payed for all our drinks, so we had a drinking competition, and _wait just a diddly-darn minute!_"

Ivan's face is the very picture of childish guilt; eyes down cast, teeth on his lower lip, cheeks and ears red, fingers practically knotted in his scarf.

"Ivan?" Madeline asks, voice dropping in pitch as she speaks, and Gilbert is once again reminded of how his teachers would speak to him and Matthias whenever they did basically anything. "What did you do?"

"I wanted Detective Jones to leave me alone," Ivan speaks with a pout, "Because I wanted to not be on the run from him all the time. So when I met Gilbert, I was so excited. He fit my basic description, and even called himself 'Prussian' not 'German'."

"So you set me up to get me arrested and Jones off you back," Gilbert hisses at him, "You _arsehole_!"

"I did not know would cause this much trouble," Ivan defends.

"You ruined my life to make yours a little bit easier!"

"I didn't give a damn!" Ivan yells, making both Madeline and Gilbert jump, "All I wanted was to give it up and just live happily with Madeline, without worrying about that asshole American Smile appearing on my doorstep. I wanted Madline to be able to live without ever getting connected to me and what I have done. I wanted to just be at peace, but Detective Jones could never let me do that. You have to understand that I know it was selfish, but I wanted to do it for Madeline."

[Breathe (2am), Anna Nalick] "Yeah, it was selfish," Gilbert says after a pause, and Ivan tenses up in anger, "But _you_ have to understand that I've got somebody too, and you getting me put in prison has separated me from her. So, I need you to get this fixed so I can go back to my life with her."

Ivan nods.

"Now, how the fuck do I get back to the prison?" Gilbert asks, "It's not comfortable, but it's less freaky than these glow clouds."

"All hail the glow cloud!" Madeline cries, and Ivan smiles at her. He digs a hand into his pocket and frowns.

"Looking for this?" Gilbert asks, pulling the little gold watch out of his pocket.

"Yes," Ivan answers, snatching it from Gilbert, "Where did you get it from?"

"It appeared in my pocket when we were doing that switch-y thing. I might be in prison, but I am not a criminal, Braginski."

Ivan takes his watch wordlessly, and pulls the key out. The mist and glow clouds warp and darken, until his cell surrounds him with its cracks and its greyness.

"And Gilbert?"

"Yes?"

Ivan stares hard at him, handing the watch back to the Prussian. "You only have a certain amount of time to use the watch. If you do use it for more than the appropriate amount, then time itself may shatter, and then everything will be screwed up. Understand?"

"Ja."

* * *

><p><strong>Weapons Frayer; Yay! I won!<strong>

**Laurel Silver; _Leet's doo the tiime waarp agaaaiiinnn!_**

**We own nothing**


	10. Uprising (Part 1)

**A/N;**

**Weapon Frayer; Sorry for the short chapter!**

**Laurel Silver; Weapons Frayer wrote most of this chapter; I just added a few sentences and changed a few morphemes. All the praise for WF.**

* * *

><p>[Are We The Waiting, Green Day]<p>

Gilbert wakes, shooting upwards immediately. He looks around to find himself back in Liz's Illinois apartment.

_You only have a certain amount of time to use the watch. If you do use it for more than the appropriate amount…._

A snore sounds from his side. Elizabeta lies there, laid sloppily spread out across the bed, a thin line of drool dripping from the corner of her hung-open mouth.

_Wait a minute, does this mean that I just traveled back in time?!_

The date _had_ been March 14th, 1981. But according to Liz's calendar, today it is May 23rd, 1980, better known as the day Gilbert first got arrested.

And then that 'Awesome Idea Lightbulb' lights up in his head. Stuff needs collecting, a mission needs doing, and then… who knows? A second chance at his life.

First, he robs the pantry of snacks, water bottles, and flammables like lighter fluid.. Then, the pistol that his uncle used during WWI, an antique but Gilbert's always been sure to keep it in good condition. Finally, he opens Elizabeta's safe, and basically robs her of her money, jewelry, and valuables. Such a wonderful boyfriend he is.

Elizabeta yawns, stretching. "Shit, what the hell happened last-WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING WITH MY STUFF?!"

Gilbert hastily opens the window and climbs out onto the fire escape, dashing down as Elizabeta follows him. As he runs, he pulls Ivan's pocket watch out of his pocket, turning the little key quickly to the right, and a flash engulfs him..

* * *

><p>The flash fades, and he stands in the middle of an devastated city, the buildings in ruin around him, the sky dark and foreboding.<p>

"Well, that was too far in time. Might have helped if one of them had given me a lesson in how thing works. But no, just give the guy a time-travelling pocket watch, he'll be able to work it out _just fine_! Fucking Russians."

* * *

><p>Gilbert jolts back into his prison bed, feeling a bit dizzy from all that time-jumping. The vortex really fucks with your head.<p>

Phase 1 of his Awesome Plan is complete. Initiate Phase 2.

He stands tall, crying out. "Are we? We are, we are? We are the waiting, our fates unknown! This dirty little prison town, called Jingletown, should be burning down in my dreams! And it is! We are all bound, to the fuckwad Jones' whims!"

He started to scream. "We may live in isolation now, the dreams of escaping are like heads or tails, fairy tales in our minds, but believe me, when we get out, your rage will be released! You're all able to!"

Gilbert finally screeched. "And do you know what I think about that?"

[Uprising, Muse]

Gilbert picks up the chainsaw he had used Ivan's pocket watch to help him steal from a small gardening store from down the street from Liz's apartment, and starts cutting the surprisingly flimsy steel of the door into shreds.

Within a minute, three wardens are sent to subdue the Prussian. A few pistol whips, kicks, and some clever hopping back in time, and all three are knocked out on the floor, the other inmates staring dumbfounded through the bars of their doors.

Gilbert grabs the keys to the cells, freeing the prisoners, asking all of them the same question as he lets them through the door; "Who prosecuted you?"

A total of forty-five answer "Detective Jones." With further encouragement, they all describe a similar story to Gilbert's; arrested for something petty, and Detective Jones somehow links them to Braginski and gets them slammed up in here. Together. Clever man.

But Jones' agenda was simple: anyone who even knew Braginsky had to go. And that was what all of the forty-five men in the prison are here over.

These forty-five are all Gilbert needs. The rest he can rile up easily, with a promise of freedom, and the odd sense of community the men have developed between themselves in their time here.

Phase 2 done. Time for phase 3.

* * *

><p><strong>Weapon Frayer; Sorry for the short chapter, folks! I would have wrote more...<strong>

**...but then, school, 4 reports, 3 presentations, and a preliminary high school math test (for next year; I live in the US) comes crashing down.**

**Don't worry, though! I will have an entire week to myself, and I will try to get some stuff done; including my favorite chapter. :)**

**Laurel Silver; Dave Strider step aside; Gilbert Wellschmidt is in town!**

**We own nothing**


	11. Uprising (Part 2)

[Radioactive, Imagine Dragons]

The air feels strangely warm and smoky, like it's full of ash and dust and rust, and Gilbert finds himself regularly wiping the sweat from his brow and breathing heavily.

The prisoners file, surprisingly orderly for a series of delinquents, onto the prison buses, some manual labourers with licences to drive large vehicles, from vans to cranes, taking the drivers' seats. Gilbert hands out weapons, starting with the guards' guns, then hopping about the space-time continuum when he runs out. As much as the vortex fucks with your head, it's addictive.

Staring out the window, Gilbert realises why the air feels so strange; the sun isn't as bright as it should be. It seems dimmer and slightly darker in colour, painting their orange jumpsuits red. As he falls asleep, the hopping and riling making him incredibly tired, Gilbert wonders if the strange sun has something to do with those paradoxes Braginski and Birdie were on about.

[ABC cafe/Red and Black, Les Miserables]

Matthias cradles his lager, thoroughly impressed by his friend. As feisty as he knows she is, he never expected her to be this good at speaking.

There she stands on the bar, not a pàlinka in her, not a fear in her, as she speaks; "The time is near, so near it's stirring the blood in our veins! From Ukraine to Hong Kong, Scotland to Australia, the world is fighting, the world is rioting, the world is not taking this shit anymore! It's times we joined our cousins across the world, it's time we fought back against the system, the system that is supposed to be protecting us and keeping us safe, but is hurting us instead! The system that is taking away our loved ones to fill up their prisons!"

She continues to yelling her meaning, and Matthias downs that last of his drink, Raivis instantly swapping in a refill for him.

"Raivis, what's wrong?" Matthias asks the pale-faced man, "You look as if you've seen a ghost!"

"A ghost you say? A ghost maybe," Raivis says, "She was just like a ghost to me. One minute there, and she was gone!"

"I am agog! I am aghast! Is little Raivis in love at last?"

"No," Raivis answers, "She literally vanished. This blonde woman in a red dress walking around, looking about like she was observing something, and I was starting to worry she was some sort of inspector when she looked at her watch and vanished."

"So she was late for something?" Matthias asks, confused.

"No, she literally _vanished_. Into thin air. She touched her watch, and literally vanished. No doors. No moving. Vanished. Poof. Gone. Vanished."

"I think that wine's gone to your head," Matthias says, turning his attention back to Elizabeta.

"We need a sign," she says, partly to herself, partly to the room, "To rally the people."

"Like what?" Matthias asks, his sudden loudness making most of the room jump.

"Now that, I don't know," Elizabeta answers pathetically.

"How about that?" a woman, blond, in a red dress, with a soft voice heavy in it's Canadian accent, asks, pointing to the television exactly, perfectly timed, as the "Breaking news" slide appears.

"Prison breakout" reads the headline, and a shot filmed from a helicopter shows a series of red-clad prisoners causing havoc just a few miles from Gilbert's prison facility. Gilbert is there, and for a few seconds Elizabeta vaguely remembers Gilbert standing by her open safe, her father's neck chain in his hand before he jumped out of the window onto the fire escape. She has no idea where this 'memory' has come from.

She nods, "Yep, that'll do."

She turns to the thank the Canadian woman, but she has vanished. Literally vanished.

* * *

><p><strong>Laurel; This chapter comes with two apologies in one, for it's shortness and for not updating last week. Both of us are still at school, and I've had a shit storm of revision starters, coursework deadlines crop up, as well as driving lessons, as well as training to be an instructor. Recently, I haven't time to write, or school has left me too numb to writer. I can only imagine Weapons Frayer has a similar situation.<strong>

**It shouldn't happen again, as Weapons Frayer has got a lot done recently, but if it does you will just have to bear with us, and we do apologise.**

**We own nothing. **


	12. Throw Up Your Arms

**Weapon Frayer; Been sick the past 5 days, it's really sucked.**

**My favorite chapter!**

**Laurel Silver; Full chapter! Finally! And it's all Green Day, yeah!**

* * *

><p>[St. Jimmy, Green Day]<p>

And Gilbert feels like some sort of saint, heaven sent to lead these people in revolution against an unfair prison system, against a prison system favouring an angel face like Detective Jones, against a justice blind to all but race. Here he comes down the alley way, his army of delinquents following closely, up onto the boulevard of dreams like a zip gun on parade. He leads like a king leads his subjects of the cult of the life of crime, the king of the forty thieves, the resident leader of the lost and found.

The rain beats down, as it has something desperately awful to cry about. The lights streaming through the windows of skyscrapers float on the falling tears like a halo.

[Holiday, Green Day]

"Do you want to start a war?!" Elizabeta screams out loud, as many people in the Loop cheered, and the rain falls. "Well then, _Viva la Revolution_**!**"

The people scatter throughout the Loop, police helicopters flying high above the mob like vultures over prey, when a projectile launched from the ground strikes a helicopter's rotor, and explodes in a small, powerful energy blast.

"Fuck! That was an EMP!" the pilot screams, "We're going down!"

The pilot struggle to maintain control before his metal vulture goes up in a blaze of red and heat, and it falls onto the elevated Lake train station, setting the station on fire.

Elizabeta douses the pavement and some vacant vehicles with gasoline, and throwing matches into the inevitable inferno that was to become of Wabash Street.

The resulting real-life counterpart of Dante's Inferno lights up like an Armageddon flame as a team of police, all geared and padded and dressed up for a riot, tackle Elizabeta Hedervary to the ground.

* * *

><p>[21 Guns, Green Day]<p>

Liz hands are cuffed firmly behind her, as 12 SWAT guards guard her, escorting her to the courthouse. She is battered, bruised, and injured, yet the damned racist Jones forbid any visitors, not even a medical professional. She feels like killing him softly, slowly, with the sweet, sweet taste of vengeance in mind.

"Alright you whore, let's get you into your seat…." The guard mimicked a sexual action that would make even Gilbert hurl before proceeding to push her into the courthouse.

Elizabeta is shoved crudely into the courthouse, falling face flat onto the carpet. Then, the door closes, and she only has one way to go; forwards.

She staggers through the courthouse, catching eyebrow-raises and stares, hands still cuffed leading to laughter from unhelpful watchers as she struggles with door handles, until she reaches the courtroom. Then, she sees the jury, and knows that she is _screwed_.

Elizabeta sits, dazed, defeated, dead-hearted, as the judge speaks; "The defendant now has the floor."

Elizabeta rises.

"You may now speak."

Elizabeta opens her mouth. "_Do you know what's worth fighting for?_"

Her singing startles the jury. the judge raises an eyebrow, but doesn't stop her..

"_When it's not worth dying for? Does it take your breath away, and you feel yourself suffocating?_"

The jury think of their war experiences, Vietnam, Korea, and even World War II, World War I, places and times colliding as reality, unbeknowingly, continues to warp and twist and unravel. The plaintiff, Jones, and his attorney, snarls.

"What is this?! This is, and should never be allowed in a court of-"

"Plaintiff, the defendant is speaking. Do not interrupt, or charges will be made against you."

The detective growled, as Elizabeta's voice rings through the courtroom.

"_Does the pain weigh out the pride? And you look for a place to hide?_ _Did someone break your heart inside? You're in ruins…_"

Her voice is crystal-clear, resonating in everyone's ears, her golden, silky smooth voice touching the hearts on the jury. Tears fall, stones drip forgiveness, hearts resonate with life and love and loss.

"_One, twenty-one guns. Lay down your arms, give up the fight. One, twenty-one guns. Throw up your arms, into the sky. You and I…_"

Meanwhile, Matthias and Ludwig are at the top of the courthouse. Thanks to the mysterious Russian Elizabeta had been babbling about and a connection of Matthias's, they would be able to save Elizabeta and free Gilbert.

"_Mein Freund_," Ludwig speaks to the Dane, an old habit of using basic German slipping into the mechanic's speech, "Where did you get these explosives? And how did you manage to get them past courthouse security?"

Matthias grins. "My Emil has a friend who's a bit of an expert with explosives. Especially ones that can scare without hurting anyone."

Ludwig sighs. How can Matthias have so many connections? He pushes it back to the back of his mind, to focus on his current objective.

"So, the plan is simple. We'll jury rig-"

"Nice pun there, Ludwig!"

"Will you please shut up right now?! Seriously, do you want to free _mein Bruder_ or not?"

"Alright, alright!"

Ludwig sighs again. "So, we'll jury rig the explosives on the roof, and then go in, retrieve Elizabeta, and then run like hell to the car."

"Sounds good to me."

Now, just to wait for the cue.

Back in the courtroom, meanwhile, Elizabeta is at the final part of her defense. The entire jury is crying, and the normally composed judge is shedding tears. Detective Jones is at wit's end, reaching slowly for his handgun, when suddenly Elizabeta's smooth voice takes a dark twist, and venomously swears at the white All-American.

"_Did you try to live on your own? When you burnt down the house and home?!_"

The ceiling begins to crack, Detective Jones's gaze snapping upwards.

"_Did you stand too close to the fire…_"

Molotov flares up on Jones's papers, scaring him and his attorney, who flees outside of the courtroom.

"_...like a fucking liar looking for forgiveness…._"

Alfred's blue eyes clashes with Elizabeta's green, Alfred's fear and surprise, and Elizabeta's rage and contempt represented directly by their stare.

"_...from a stone._"

Alfred's world blanks, as a shard of ceiling knocked him out cold.

* * *

><p>Elizabeta blinked, and in the flash of a second, Matthias and Ludwig are dragging her out of the courtroom.<p>

"Come on Liz, we need to get out of here!" one of them shouts, but she can't tell which over the panicking noises of the jury.

They hurry down the steps of the back entrance, Matthias grabbing a sharp stone from the ground and and throwing it at a pickup truck's window.

"Come on, come on Matthias!"

Matthias jumps into the vehicle, throwing the large shards of glass out into the back of the pickup truck. A man comes running from a nearby building, yelling about "Hooligans! Attacking my truck!"

Ludwig shoves Elizabeta into the passenger seat before facing the man, pulling a Luger from his jacket and laying the German accent on thick, because Americans are ironically afraid of immigrants. "Hello, Old Man. Can we borrow your Automobile?"

The driver nods comically fast. "S-sure."

Ludwig pulls a roll of duct tape from his jacket, smoothing it over the license plate as Matthias unscrews the panel, hot-wiring the car.

"Elizabeta!"

Elizabeta snaps her gaze around to see Roderich, of all the people! He's running out of his car towards pickup truck.

"Elizabeta, I heard about the court case. Why didn't you tell me about what you did?!"

Liz is starting to get disturbed. This is not at all like Roderich, his aristocratic composure non-existent. He isn't even wearing his trademark cravat, for Heaven's sake!

"Roderich, we can talk later. Meanwhile, if you want to come with us, get in the back."

Roderich regains his composure, climbing onto the back of the pick up truck with a leg-up from Ludwig, sitting down as dainty as one can in a dusty pick-up. Liz is once again disturbed, but she shrugs it off as Matthias gives a whoop and the engine revs to life, it's owner cursing after them as they drive off, the flames of the courthouse and the flashing of emergency vehicles flickering off the shiny red paint.

* * *

><p><strong>Weapon Frayer; Writing the 21 Guns part almost made me cry from pure epic ness. <strong>

**Sorry I haven't been on; school's been piling up, and coughing blood doesn't help when you're trying to recover.**

**Laurel Silver; Gilbert and the prisoners have been (mostly) rounded up and taken to a heavier guarded prison in Wisconsin. That'll probably be written into the next chapter, but in case any of you were wondering.**

**We own nothing**


End file.
